


fragmented

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 21:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: “Ghosts…they really are just echoes. Vestigial remnants of a human soul, left behind after some sort of splintering trauma. The stronger ones, the angrier ones, require exorcising or resolving, but it’s still rather mathematical in nature. They dissipate when they receive whatever it is they’re looking for.”(season 3. There's another haunting at Sunnydale High, and this time, it's stirring up some painful memories for Giles.)





	fragmented

**Author's Note:**

> this fic probably has some kinda spiritual connection to [bless her soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826695), in that i stayed up late to write it all in one go (whOOPS), it's extremely angsty in places, it's about giles dealing with jenny's death, and it's set in s3. but the focus is much more shippy in this one, imo.

It was kind of an unofficial pizza party thing, one where Faith showed up with beer (“absolutely _not,_ ” said Giles) and Xander showed up with a whole bunch of candy he’d snuck from the staff room (“I _love you,_ ” said Cordelia, and then went bright pink) and Oz picked up the pizza on his way over to meet them. It was kind of fun, too, everyone snug and cozy while they chatted about dumb stuff like homework and parties and college, and Giles even brought out his guitar and played a few songs with Oz. It was fun, and it was quiet, and in retrospect, Buffy really should have known that a quiet night like that wouldn’t stay quiet for long.

At ten to midnight, there was a loud crash from across the hall. And then there was a sobbing gasp, one that echoed eerily through the library like there was someone right in the room with them.

Giles stilled, and his hand slipped on the guitar, making this weird twangy sound. “What—” he said.

Another crash. The sound of rattling doors.

Giles got slowly up from his seat. Xander followed suit. “Hold on, guys, I got this,” said Buffy, extremely irritable. It was _so_ uncool of the Hellmouth to not give them at least _one_ night off, especially since everyone had had a _really_ tough year. Giles had been starting to lose that tense, drawn look as he strummed his guitar, Willow had been beginning to look just a little bit more cheerful, and Buffy _was not having_ any demony crap tonight. Seriously.

Slowly, she peered around the library door, and her stomach dropped.

It was Ms. Calendar.

No, it wasn’t—Ms. Calendar was dead. Obviously. So it couldn’t be Ms. Calendar. And even this version of Ms. Calendar wasn’t quite Ms. Calendar—this version was silvery and see-through as she tugged desperately at the doors that led outside. Those doors were unlocked, Buffy knew; she’d unlocked them herself to make sure Oz had gotten all the pizzas in. But this Ms. Calendar pulled at the doors like they were chained shut, and then she turned, eyes wide and wild.

From behind her, Buffy heard Giles make a terrible, strangled noise.

It was clear that Ms. Calendar couldn’t see them, because her expression didn’t change at the sight of the Scoobies. She wavered for a moment at the library, and then she turned, running down the hall as though…

Being chased.

And suddenly Buffy knew what was going on. “Stay here,” she said sharply, and followed the clattering of Ms. Calendar’s clunky heels down the hall and through an outdoor pathway. A shadow passed through Buffy, dark and shapeless, one that filled her with the same shivery terror she’d always felt around Angelus. She pressed on. Ms. Calendar had just tumbled through a set of closed doors; Buffy yanked the doors open and followed her.

Ms. Calendar turned, pushing an invisible something in the direction of her invisible pursuer, and ran up the stairs that led to the second level. As Buffy rounded the corner, she heard a _scream,_ and saw that Ms. Calendar had stilled at the top of the staircase, breathing hard, eyes wide. Her head twisted at an angle it shouldn’t, and then she fell, lying still and lifeless on the floor. Her face was turned towards Buffy. Her eyes were still wide open.

The air shimmered, and Ms. Calendar was gone. Buffy shivered. Something was very wrong.

There was a strange _thud_ from next to Buffy. She jumped, turning, and felt her heart twist; in her hurry to follow Ms. Calendar, Buffy hadn’t realized she was being followed herself. Giles had fallen against the wall, staring blankly at the spot where the translucent Ms. Calendar had crumpled to the floor.

“So,” said Giles, his voice small and flat. “Now I know.”

* * *

“Could it be a poltergeist?” Willow asked, paging through one of the many volumes Buffy and Faith had brought out.

Giles wasn’t there to assist; he’d called in sick that day. He’d needed a lot of space after Ms. Calendar’s death, and it stood to reason that seeing her ghost die in front of him would have him needing even _more_ space, so he was getting all the space he needed from the Scoobies. This was, however, proving to be something of a problem, because Giles was generally the guy who did the researching—which meant that everyone was just grabbing random books and flipping through them in search of _any_ possible answer.

“I don’t know,” said Buffy, frowning. “Aren’t poltergeists usually, like, kinda murdery? Ms. Calendar just seemed scared.”

“This chick died at school, right?” said Faith. “Maybe her death was too fucked up for her to die all the way. Ghosts are all about unresolved business and shit.”

“See, the problem with _that,_ ” said Cordelia, handing one of the heavier tomes to Xander, “is that Ms. Calendar died almost a year ago. If she wanted to start haunting, wouldn’t she have done it sooner than now?”

“And how come we’re just—”

“Uh, guys?” said Oz conversationally, pointing to a spot behind Willow. Willow turned, then _shrieked,_ dropping the book she was holding directly onto Buffy’s foot. Buffy yelped, indignant, then turned around and all but _jumped_ into Faith’s arms. (Faith didn’t look like she minded this very much.)

Another translucent Ms. Calendar was leaning back against the library counter, hair disheveled, head tilted back. She had that expression on her face that Willow remembered—that fondly annoyed look that meant that Giles was rambling on about something or other. Abruptly, she pressed her hand to her mouth, then laughed: an echoing, empty sound that chilled Willow to the bone. The ghost’s eyes were warm, but there was misery in that laugh.

Willow plucked up her courage. “Ms. Calendar?” she said timidly. “Um—can you—hello?”

 _“You’re ridiculous,”_ said Ms. Calendar, still in that creepy, echoing voice. It didn’t seem right with her kind smile. _“Seriously. Just—let me come over this weekend, okay? I’ll totally seduce you into learning how to use your school email account.”_ She paused, her smile widening. It was pretty clear who she was talking to, now, and all of a sudden Willow _really_ didn’t want to be there. This felt way too personal for them to watch. _“I’m sorry, is that a challenge? You know my seduction skills are totally—”_

“We need to get Giles,” said Buffy, talking loudly over Ms. Calendar. She looked just as shaken and miserable as Willow felt. “We need to—maybe he can, maybe she’s trying to get through to him or something. He’s the one who knows her best. Remember with that poltergeist, how—”

“How he just wanted Grace to forgive him?” Willow finished. “Buffy, I don’t know—I mean, ghosts are a dicey business. Maybe what Ms. Calendar needs doesn’t have anything to do with Giles.”

“Well, we’re not the ones who are gonna figure that out,” said Buffy flatly. “She was _Giles’s_ girlfriend, Willow.”

“Yeah, but she was _our_ teacher!” Willow persisted. “And Giles was _really_ hurt when she died, Buffy. If there’s _anything_ we can do ourselves to help her, I think—”

Ms. Calendar’s voice cut off. As they all turned to look at her, they saw that her head was tilted up, just for a moment, and then she pulled back in the way you did right after a kiss. She turned her head, presumably watching Giles leave, and then the smile dropped from her face. She pressed her hands to her mouth and let out a small, shaking breath.

 _I’m sorry,_ said a voice, and Ms. Calendar flickered away. _I should have told you then._ There it was again, empty and mournful—and then a cacophony of voices started up, all the same, all Ms. Calendar, all half-sobbing and whispery and easily the scariest thing Willow had ever experienced. _SorrysorrysorryshouldhavetoldyouI’msorryIshouldhavetoldyou—_

“STOP IT!” Buffy screamed.

Ms. Calendar’s echoing sobs cut off, and all eyes turned to Buffy. She was shaking. Faith reached out to her, but Buffy shrugged her off, stumbling back. Willow stepped forward, feeling like maybe this was a best friend’s job. “Buffy—?”

Sobbing, Buffy ran out of the library. Eyes wide, Faith followed, but it was pretty clear that Buffy had enough of a head start to outpace her.

“Okay, _this_ isn’t ideal,” said Xander unsteadily. “We’re down two Slayers _and_ a Watcher. How the hell are we supposed to figure out what’s up with Ms. Calendar _now?”_

“Maybe this is her plan,” said Cordelia darkly. “Maybe she wants to pick us off so we can’t figure out what’s wrong until it’s too late.”

“Ms. Calendar wouldn’t do that,” said Willow, fixing all of them with her best Resolve Face. “You all know the kind of person she was.”

“Did we?” said Cordelia.

Willow looked around the library, from Xander to Cordelia to Oz, waiting for someone to say _of course we did, Ms. Calendar was always good—_ but all of them looked doubtful, wary, like they thought this might be some kind of poltergeist-y trick. And that _stung,_ in a way she didn’t know how to articulate, because she _knew_ Ms. Calendar. “Ms. Calendar doesn’t guilt people,” she said. “She never guilted _us_ while she was alive—”

“Well, maybe she’s starting _now,_ ” said Cordelia acidly. “Maybe _that’s_ her unfinished business, Willow, did you ever think of that?”

“Guys,” said Xander nervously.

“ _Don’t_ talk about Ms. Calendar like that!” shouted Willow. “You—you never even _knew_ her if you’re talking about her like—like she’d even _think_ of—”

 _“Hey,”_ said Oz loudly. This shocked Willow and Cordelia into silence.“Willow,” he said, “I know how much Ms. Calendar means to you, and I’m sorry. But I think Cordelia has a point.”

“What?” said Willow, her voice trembling.

“Granted,” said Oz, fixing Cordelia with a look that, for Oz, was positively scathing (it was really more of a quiet, disapproving glance, but Willow would take what she could get), “she didn’t handle stuff as gracefully as she probably should have, but we need to consider every possibility if we really want to help Ms. Calendar. Shooting down ideas just because they don’t fit with the person you remember isn’t the way to figure this out.”

That…made sense. Willow sniffled, reaching out to Oz, and he took her hand. “I just,” she said, and her voice broke, “if she—if she can somehow hear us, I don’t want her thinking—she _died_ thinking we all hated her, Oz! If she’s come back, I don’t—I want her to know how much we _love_ her, how much we _missed_ her—”

Cordelia swallowed, eyes wet. “Willow, I’m sorry,” she said. _That_ took Willow aback. “I didn’t—I’m just—” She sniffled, hugging her arms to her chest. “I’m _scared,_ ” she said. “Last time there was a poltergeist, a _snake_ bit my _face._ And we all thought it was Ms. Calendar back then—”

 _“Giles_ thought it was Ms. Calendar back then,” Xander corrected, then swallowed. “Man. I hope Giles is okay.”

* * *

Rupert Giles had gone home, made himself a cup of tea, topped it off with some scotch, decided to forego the tea for more scotch, and drunk himself into a stupor, sleeping through most of the day. He had been woken up by his alarm and stumbled downstairs to call in sick, claiming a splitting headache, which was the truth. Then, after another drink, he had passed out on the couch, which was where he found himself when he was woken, late at night, by his apartment door banging open.

He sat up, feeling _awful._

Buffy, pale and shaking, was standing in the doorway. It had been raining since that morning, and so her hair was plastered to her face, her yellow cardigan drenched and clinging to her tank top. She looked positively bedraggled. Without a word, she stepped into the apartment, then sat down next to Giles, making no comment about the empty bottles and glasses littering the apartment.

Giles didn’t say anything. This was partially due to the splitting headache, but partially because he really didn’t want to think about why she might be here.

“She showed up in the library,” said Buffy. “We need your help.”

“What happened?” Giles’s voice came out raw and hoarse.

“Nothing,” said Buffy. “Nothing. She—” She very visibly bit back a sob. “She’s an echo, Giles. She can’t see us, she can’t hear us, she’s just—playing out memories.”

“Her and me both,” said Giles. He wished he was a bit more drunk for this conversation. “Buffy, you don’t—” He swallowed. Saying _you don’t need me_ would be a falsehood. They were children, and they weren’t equipped to exorcise a poltergeist—but his heart seized at the thought of casting out _anything_ that might hold some last vestige of Jenny. “I am not strong enough for this,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it is my place as a Watcher to aid you in—” He couldn’t finish that sentence. All of the words he could think of somehow linked back to _the destruction of evil;_ he could not label Jenny’s ghost as such. “But I can’t,” he said. “I hope you can forgive me.”

“I don’t know what to _do,_ ” said Buffy, her voice breaking. “Giles, _please,_ I-I’m not strong enough either, she died alone and afraid and I don’t know how—”

“I’m sorry,” said Giles numbly.

Buffy dissolved into tears, then, curling inward and away from him, horrible, broken sobs the likes of which Giles had only heard during that night at the factory. Giles wanted to reach out to her, the way she had for him, but all he could see was—Jenny, sprawled by that window, eyes wide and staring. He had walked past that window nearly every day for the last year. He had walked past the place her life _ended,_ and he had _never_ known. Nothing—not alcohol, not magic, not _death_ —could erase that knowledge from Giles’s mind.

He had not thought of Jenny since Drusilla. It had become clear to him, then, that his love for her, once such an unexpected gift, had become an exploitable weakness. He had visited her grave one last time—told her everything he had wanted to tell her in life—and he had removed her from his thoughts. Grieving her death was not a luxury that he could afford—not as a Watcher.

But what Watcher was he, now, if he let his love for her become a weakness yet again?

It was that realization that gave Giles the strength to push Jenny out of his mind. This was not Jenny. Jenny was dead, and thinking of her would destroy him, and the children needed a functioning Watcher. This was an apparition, an echo, its motives unknown, that might pose a risk to high school students. Giles’s job would be to deduce the ghost’s desire—whatever it was that was keeping it here—and to figure out how to fulfil it. To get it to leave.

He stood up, swaying a bit, and gripped the edge of his couch. Buffy looked up, still shaking with sobs. “I shall help,” he said, small and flat. “Please do not use her name in any discussions of our mission. I would prefer to remain as detached from this situation as possible until it has been resolved.”

Though she was still too shattered and shaken to express her feelings, Giles could clearly see the relief and gratitude in Buffy’s eyes. She stood up, dusting herself off. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

The apparition had manifested itself and vanished again by the time that Giles reached the school. Xander relayed a description of the events: it had walked down the hall, in conversation with a figure from its past, and paused by the computer lab. It had propositioned the person it was in conversation with. It had stood on tiptoe to receive a kiss. It had entered the computer lab, passing through the closed door as if it were open, and it had sat down at the teacher’s desk. The room had echoed with the spirit’s voice, then: previously, it had been apologizing, but now it was saying—

“What?” said Giles impatiently.

Willow had stopped relaying the new information to him. She looked tearful, and somewhat concerned. “Giles,” she said, “are you sure you’re okay enough for this?”

“ _Don’t,_ ” said Giles. “Do not ask me that. We are going to fix this as quickly and expediently as possible.”

“Yeah, uh, that’s the thing,” said Xander. “She—” Buffy fixed him with a look, and he coughed, correcting himself. “Uh, _it_ was saying your name.”

“And crying,” said Willow unsteadily.

“And crying,” Xander added. “Yeah. Yeah, it was, uh, it was crying really hard while it was saying your name. Like it was grieving or something.”

Giles had been expecting to feel a sharp jolt of grief at that, but his emotions had been neatly repackaged the moment he had started thinking of this as a mission, and of— _her—_ as a faceless ghost. He felt grateful for it. “All right,” he said. “So it’s fair to assume that its unfinished business somehow involves me. Now, all of these appearances seem to be taking place at night—one last night, two tonight. Do you all think it likely that the ghost will appear again tonight?”

“No,” said Oz.

Willow nodded. “That first one only cut off when Buffy shouted at it to stop,” she said quietly, “but this one…it didn’t stick around for very long. It was only a few seconds.” She looked up at Giles. “It stopped when you came in.”

Giles considered. “Then I shall be keeping watch in the library,” he said. “Tonight. You all should go home.”

“Um, that _really_ doesn’t sound like a good idea,” said Cordelia. “I know that Ms. Calendar—” Xander elbowed her; she elbowed him right back. _“Deal with it,”_ she said. “We all know it’s her, and pretending that it’s not doesn’t help anyone. I know that _Ms. Calendar_ isn’t out to hurt us, ‘cause she had every opportunity to do it and we’ve been here for, like, hours, but Giles, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re totally a mess about this.”

“ _Cordelia!”_ said Willow.

“Look, _someone_ has to say it!” Cordelia persisted.

Giles stared blankly at Cordelia. Claiming that he wasn’t in pieces over Jenny’s death seemed pointless; they would all know it to be a lie. “No one else can do it,” he said. “The sooner we put an end to this, the better, and perhaps my presence will draw her—” Grief hit him, unexpectedly, out of nowhere. He had to take a sharp, steadying breath before continuing. “Perhaps my presence will draw _it_ out.”

None of the children looked happy about this. “Giles, we can’t just _leave_ you here,” said Buffy quietly. “Cordelia’s right. You’re not in any condition to handle this.”

“I’ve never denied it,” said Giles. “But this isn’t your choice to make.”

“He has a point.”

Startled, Giles turned.

“It’s _not_ our choice to make,” said Willow. “It’s his life. And unless Buffy wants to manhandle—sorry, _Slayer-_ handle him into a car and help drive him home, we’re not gonna get him to leave.” She smiled, small and tired. “But it can be my choice to stay with him.”

“Willow—” said Giles, frustrated.

“Giles, you’re not gonna change my mind,” said Willow, moving forward to place a gentle hand on his arm. “Just as much as I’m not gonna change yours. It’s somebody you love, right? If you can help, obviously you’re going to want to.”

The words cut Giles in a way he hadn’t been anticipating. All of a sudden, he felt a desperate need—not to be alone, not quite, but for— “Please,” he said hollowly, and without warning, the truth spilled out. “Please, I—I want to _see_ her.”

Willow’s face changed. “Oh,” she said softly.

“Well, at least he’s admitting it,” said Cordelia.

There was a strange, tense silence. Then Buffy said, “I should go check up on Faith. You guys wanna come with?”

“I—” Willow glanced nervously back at Giles.

“We should give them some privacy,” said Buffy, looking towards Giles with a quiet, tired understanding in her eyes. He didn’t know the words to thank her for what she was giving him. Weakly, he inclined his head, and she returned the nod. “Tell her some cool stuff about me, Giles, okay?” she said gently.

Giles couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He watched them leave the library, and then he went into his office and made himself a cup of non-alcoholic tea. It didn’t really help.

* * *

She didn’t appear again that night. The children had been right: her appearance prior to his arrival had been her last one. Giles stayed up all night anyway, which didn’t do him much good, because he fell asleep as soon as dawn broke and ended up sleeping through the entire school day. He woke up with the children in the library and Buffy’s long white overcoat thrown over him as a makeshift blanket, only half an hour from sunset. He could only barely make out what they were talking about.

“…if there’s any way we can get her to just _leave?”_ Willow was saying unsteadily. “It’s so hard on him, Buffy. I don’t know—what if seeing her again is too much for him?”

“We can’t take that choice away from him,” said Buffy quietly. “It’s huge that he admitted he wants to see her.”

“But maybe—maybe _we_ can give her what she wants,” said Xander tentatively. “Whatever it is. Maybe it’s—forgiveness. Or something. Maybe we can just tell her Giles forgives her and he’s in love with her and she’ll _go._ ” He swallowed, sniffling. “Man, I hate talking about her like this,” he said. “Like she’s some kind of—she’s not a pest.”

“No, she’s not,” Willow agreed in a small voice. “But she doesn’t know how much she’s hurting Giles. She’d never want that.”

Something about the quiet, reasonable way they were having this discussion hurt Giles _much_ more than he’d expected. Hearing them talk like _adults,_ hearing them weigh the pros and cons in an effort to shield _him…_ it felt as though he had _truly_ failed them, if these _children_ had to take up the mantle and work out this terribly painful situation. They’d not even _graduated_ yet. He stood up, doing his best to look relatively less of a mess, and entered the library.

The children all stood up very fast upon seeing him, varied expressions of guilt on all of their faces. Cordelia, Oz, and Faith were noticeably absent, this time around. “Giles, are you okay?” Willow asked.

They deserved honesty, Giles thought. “The woman I love is dead, and I am placed in a position where I have to remove her further from my life,” he said quietly. “I think it’s safe to say that I am nowhere _near_ okay. But—” and here was the time for some white lies, “—sleeping it off has helped clear my head. Thank you all for keeping me company, but I rather think it’s time for me to…wait. For her.”

Willow bit her lip, wavering. “Can you tell her—from us—”

“That we’re sorry too?” Buffy finished.

Wordlessly, Giles nodded.

Xander led the girls out of the room, looking back, once, at Giles. The boy looked uncharacteristically somber, no trace of mirth or anger in his eyes. It was rather jarring.

And then the library was empty, and the sun was an hour from setting. Giles had time, he decided, before another echo arrived. He set about making another cup of tea, mostly out of habit—and while he was pouring a mug, a thought occurred to him. An echo of his own.

He walked to the staff room, just as he had done every Friday a year ago. He brewed an entire pot of coffee, just as he had done every Friday, because it was after hours and there was no fresh pot there. He poured out a mug, and prepared to pour the rest of the pot down the sink, because Jenny had a tendency to drink more coffee than she should, and if she knew there was an entire pot in the staff room (his eyes stung with tears) she would go looking for it—

No. No, this was the key part, the part he needed to deviate from. He left the pot where it was, and headed back into his office, the mug of coffee in hand. He had to believe. He had to play the part. He had to think to himself: _of course she’s going to be there. She’s always there. Somehow, as if by magic, she always knows—_

And there she was. Slipping in, a little late, but hopping gracefully up onto the desk. Giles remembered this day: it was the one day she _hadn’t_ managed to be there in time. _“Oh, god,”_ she said. _“Did this kill the magic?”_

What had he said, here? She was still, quiet, waiting for him to reply: somehow, he knew in his bones that he had to continue the charade. He remembered just in time. “Completely,” he said, stepping forward to press the mug into her hands. “Entirely. Really, there’s no reason for me to continue our relationship at all if you aren’t punctual.”

 _“My only winning quality,”_ Jenny lamented, and grinned up at him. It hurt _unspeakably_ to see that smile again. But this time it was _her,_ even if she couldn’t see him, and that was truly the only thing that kept Giles from falling to pieces. _“So now you’re leaving me?”_

Giles remembered this part. “Never,” he said.

 _“You’re more forgiving than me,”_ Jenny informed him, and raised the mug to take a sip. _“God, that’s good. Freshly made?”_

This was the place where Giles said _yes, but only the one cup._ Instead, he said, “Yes, it is. There’s a fresh pot in the staff room, and I poured a cup for you.”

Jenny’s face flickered, like bad static on a television screen. _“Freshly made?”_ she said again, obviously expecting a different answer.

“And I poured a cup for you because I love you,” said Giles, his voice breaking. “Because you always come when there’s coffee. I’ve read texts on, on offerings—what they can mean to—”

 _“Freshly m—”_ Jenny flickered, and cut out, vanishing from the office.

The pot of coffee was still in the staff room, Giles knew. He walked slowly, deliberately, because he was—he was so bloody afraid of entering that room and not finding her there. If this was a haunting, a collection of meaningless echoes, she would cease to exist when she got what she wanted, which was to see him. If this was _Jenny—_

But it wasn’t Jenny, Giles reminded himself. Jenny was dead. Whatever this was, it wasn’t _Jenny._ No ghost was anything but an echo. No ghost was strong enough to _be_ anything but an echo. 

Despite himself, he thought, _if anyone was strong enough, it would be her._

The light in the staff room was on. Giles’s heart leapt, just for a moment, before he realized that he had _left_ it on in his haste to bring the coffee to Jenny. He swallowed, steeling himself for another echo, for an empty room—

And he couldn’t. He _couldn’t._ He couldn’t go in there and find fragments of the woman he loved. He couldn’t go in there and find himself alone, _again._ He had loved her so deeply, so _utterly,_ and he had _lost_ her, and he would _never_ be able to love someone like that again, not without putting them in danger—he would never be _loved_ like that again, not by someone who had known every terrible part of him and loved him all the same—

He collapsed to the floor. He buried his face in his hands. And for the first time in almost a year, Rupert Giles let himself cry.

It was painful, and in more ways than one—he was sobbing so hard it _ached._ He kept on seeing her translucent face in his office, her staring eyes by the window, her laid out on his bed—and god, that moment when he’d seen her lying there, that surge of happiness, that affectionate feeling of _oh, poor tired darling, leaving me a lovely note and all those roses and falling asleep before I got here—_ that moment in the _factory,_ facing Angelus, knowing that Jenny’s death had been a meaningless act of violence inflicted by a man who would _never_ understand the magnitude of what he had done—

Warm hands tugged Giles’s face up from his hands; he tried to twist away. “Hey,” said a soft voice. “Come on. Look at me.” Too overwhelmed by his grief to really register the other person’s presence, Giles settled instead for curling into a secure, familiar embrace, burying his face in dark hair and trying to match his breathing with her own—

It hit him, then, _far_ later than it should have. He froze.

Jenny pulled back, a laugh in her eyes. “Look, I know this really isn’t good of me to say right now,” she said, “and please know that I love you _very_ much, but god, Rupert, I’ve been hugging you for like ten minutes! I really hope the irony of you crying over my death while I’m, oh, I don’t know, _resurrected by coffee and waiting in the staff room,_ isn’t lost on you.”

Giles was still _much_ too emotional to really register anything she had said—only that she was _there,_ and _warm,_ and _real,_ and that he could rest his forehead against hers. She laughed, a soft, wobbly sound, and leaned in for a quick, tentative kiss, but Giles wouldn’t have anything so short as _that._ He chased her mouth as she pulled back, tugging her back into him. Jenny, _immediately_ receptive, twined her arms around his neck, happy to let him tug her flush against him. She tasted _very_ much like coffee. “ _Did_ you have any of that coffee?” he inquired roughly between kisses.

“I’m sorry,” Jenny murmured, “you expected me _not_ to?”

“Well, it was—it was metaphor coffee, Jenny, I wasn’t expecting—” Something else occurred to Giles. He pulled back, heart pounding. _“Resurrected?”_

Jenny _beamed._ “You noticed that, huh?”

* * *

_“What?”_ gasped Willow, much like she had a year ago upon hearing the news of Jenny’s death—just as tearful, just as disbelieving. But this was different, Giles knew, because a second later, Willow had _launched_ herself at Jenny, enfolding her in a tight, sobbing hug.

“What?” said Buffy weakly—not quite as impassioned as Willow, but just as shaken as pretty much everyone else.

“Um,” said Giles, who still hadn’t entirely wrapped his head around the last few hours. “We’re still, ah, working out the quantum physics of it—”

“It’s Rupert’s magic coffee,” said Jenny. “Dragged me back from the grave. He made a _whole pot_ for me and he said I could drink _all_ of it—”

“I said no such thing,” said Giles, and found himself grinning _very_ broadly.

Still crying, Willow cuddled closer to Jenny. _“How?”_

“Ghosts are tricky things,” said Jenny, and she _did_ look up, then, at all of them. Something in her eyes was a little bit… _changed,_ Giles thought, but not necessarily for the worse. It was simply that one couldn’t die without it leaving a bit of a mark on them. “I couldn’t—” She tugged Willow closer, running an absent hand through her hair. “There was stuff I hadn’t told you all,” she said. “Stuff I’d left unsaid. So I came back to say it.”

“Is that _allowed?”_ said Xander skeptically.

Jenny smirked. “Not really.”

“Generally,” said Giles, “ghosts…they really are just echoes. Vestigial remnants of a human soul, left behind after some sort of splintering trauma. The stronger ones, the angrier ones, require exorcising or resolving, but it’s still rather mathematical in nature. They dissipate when they receive whatever it is they’re looking for.”

“But why come back _now?”_ said Cordelia, frowning. “The timing’s kinda weird.”

“Uh,” said Jenny, and for some reason, her eyes darted to Buffy. “A…gate opened,” she said. “To let someone else come back to this dimension. I managed to hitch a ride.”

Buffy blanched. “Oh,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Jenny.

“Care to share with the class?” said Xander.

“Can we—maybe tomorrow?” said Buffy helplessly. “Definitely tomorrow. I think right now I need to just process _this_ thing before the next one.”

Giles looked to Jenny, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off of Buffy. “Make sure you tell Rupert first,” she said quietly. “He’s the one who most deserves to know.”

“I know,” said Buffy. She smiled, her face softening into something the likes of which Giles hadn’t seen since—well, since Jenny’s death. Freer. Less encumbered. “So welcome to the club.”

“Was I not already in the Scooby Gang?” said Jenny, looking a little confused.

“Not _that_ club,” said Buffy, and to Giles’s surprise, she stepped forward and stuck out her hand. “The once-dead-twice-not-dead club. President: me. You can be vice-president if you want, but I’ve got seniority.” She considered. “At least, in terms of who died first. If we’re talking _age—_ ”

“Watch it,” said Jenny, a laugh in her voice. Carefully, she let go of Willow, then moved to shake Buffy’s hand. “I think I’d make a better secretary,” she said. “My note-taking skills are _unparalleled.”_

“Truly,” said Giles softly.

Jenny turned to him again, eyes shining.

“You know what?” said Buffy, a soft, warm smile growing as she watched them. “We really should be getting home. I think we’re leaving Giles in some pretty capable hands.”

“He does seem to enjoy them,” Jenny agreed, deadpan.

“Oh, _don’t_ traumatize the children,” said Giles reprovingly, moving to tuck Jenny into his side. She laughed, a sweet, warm sound that he’d _missed,_ so much—

“Yeah, let’s get out of here,” Xander agreed, grabbing Cordelia’s hand. “Things seem like they’re about to get weird.”

“HAVE FUN AND USE PROTECTION,” Faith yelled over her shoulder as the group left.

“I like the new kid,” said Jenny immediately.

Giles turned back towards her, looking down at the woman he loved and feeling _too_ many feelings to catalogue in one night. But it didn’t matter if he was a wreck, now. He could heal. So could she. “I love you,” he said very softly. “I will make you endless amounts of coffee if that’s what gets you to stay.”

“I want that in writing,” said Jenny.

He hadn’t laughed since her death, Giles thought. It _did_ make sense that the first time he laughed again was with her in his arms.

* * *

Jenny paid for the pizza, somehow. “Please don’t ask,” she said. “I did a lot of semi-legal magic things to get most of my stuff back, and that includes the money—do _not_ look at me like that, Willow, I am not an example to be followed. Stick to the lesson plan I gave you.”

“I don’t wanna be a pencil-floater my whole life!” Willow objected.

“And you _won’t,_ ” Jenny reassured her, bopping Willow on the nose with one of the breadsticks. Willow giggled.

“Food is for _eating,_ not for playing with!” objected an indignant Xander, grabbing the breadstick from Jenny to split it with Cordelia. “C’mon, Ms. Calendar, I expected better of you—”

Buffy snickered. She was lounging in the back of the room with a soda, a slice of pizza, and an _extremely_ on-edge Angel, who had gotten a very threatening speech from the entirety of the Scooby Gang regarding what was and wasn’t allowed now that he was back. Giles had found himself surprisingly lenient; he suspected it was because Jenny’s hand had been tucked in the crook of his arm for most of said talk. Buffy had loved someone, and lost them, and now they were _back,_ and she wanted to _be_ with them in whatever capacity she could. He understood that.

“So how serious _are_ they?” Faith was asking Oz in a low voice.

“Give it a little while,” said Oz quietly. “Try being her friend first.”

Jenny crossed the library to Giles, who was carefully taking his guitar out of his case. _“How_ is it that I never learned this about you?” she said, a delighted laugh in her voice. “You never _once_ mentioned you know how to play!”

“There are quite a lot of things I didn’t get the opportunity to tell you,” said Giles. Guitar in hand, he leaned down to give her a slow, gentle kiss. “I shall treasure the newfound chance to do so.”


End file.
